Redemption
by khasael
Summary: When Draco runs into Harry Potter in Muggle London, he has no idea how much the chance encounter will change his way of life. How much is he willing to learn about forgiveness? Part one of a three part series


**Title**: Redemption

**Fandom**: Harry Potter

**Pairing**: Harry/Draco

**Era**: Post-Hogwarts (approx 10 years). Canon-compliant, but does not take into account the epilogue.

**Rating**: PG-13 / T

**Warnings**: Discussion of past self-harm. Angst. Character death (not Harry or Draco).

**Word Count**: ~18,500

**Betas**: Lia_Clarissima and Hanelissar

**Summary:** _When Draco runs into Harry Potter in Muggle London, he has no idea how much the chance encounter will change his way of life. How much is he willing to learn about forgiveness?_

_Author's Note: This story is the first in a three part series.  
_

Disclaimer: This piece of fiction is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. Inc. No money is being made, no copyright or trademark infringement, or offence is intended. All characters depicted in sexual situations are above the age of consent.

Redemption

The dreams were back again.

Draco woke up breathing hard, images both old and new swirling around in his head and mingling together. He tried to catch the thread of the dream, but it eluded him, fading nearly as quickly as he'd woken. He remembered that feeling of misery, of unrelenting fear and desperation, but that was all that was clear. Snatches of it came almost close enough for him to fasten to. That pale, snake-like face. His father's cold expression. Green eyes. And the Dark Mark. Always that.

He rolled over and looked at his forearm in the moonlight. It was still there. Not the black markings, the moving tattoo that used to be there; not even the lightened version of the same, what the Mark had turned into in the years after Voldemort had been defeated. Just the scar tissue that Draco had put there himself. The sight of it grounded him and let him know where he was. Just another night at home in his flat. Alone.

Sighing to himself, Draco rubbed the scar and settled back under his blanket as the rain tapped lightly at his windowpane. He tried to block the remnants of his dream and focus on something else—anything else—instead. An hour later, as the rain slackened, he drifted off, dreaming of nothing at all.

~*~

Two weeks later, he was walking down the street when a glare momentarily blinded him and caused him to bump into a lamppost. He shook his head at the garish butterfly wind chime hanging outside the small dress shop and walked past, muttering and dusting himself off. His shoulder had only glanced off the post, but it was the stumbling that had irritated him. It wasn't dignified, walking around at four in the afternoon, looking like a sodding drunk.

"Malfoy?"

Draco ignored the voice behind him and kept walking. He must have misheard it anyway. No one in this neighbourhood knew him by that name. He was almost at his destination when he heard his name again, this time more insistent and directly behind him. He turned around, ready to tell them they had the wrong person.

His voice faltered when he saw who had called out to him. "Potter?"

"Yeah."

Neither of them spoke for a moment. They just stared at each other. Draco looked at him, taking him in. He looked…well, he looked like Potter always had, mostly. Not much style: just a simple jumper, jeans, and trainers. He was a few years older, with the same messy black hair. Same green eyes. Green… Hm. Finally, Draco's wits came back to him. "What on earth are you doing in Muggle London?"

A smirk played on Potter's lips. "I could ask the same about you."

"You could, but no one said I'd answer you, and besides, I asked first. Were you following me?"

"No. I gave that up ten years ago," he said with a little laugh. "My aunt and uncle live here now. I was just—I was returning something to my aunt."

Something about the story felt wrong to Draco. "Didn't you… Didn't you hate your Muggle family?"

"No. Well, yes. I did. I mean, we're still not close or anything, but I found something of my mother's I thought she would want her sister to have, and I…Wait. Why is it _you're_ here? You mean to tell me you actually consort with non-Purebloods and Muggles now?"

He bristled, but tried not to let it show. "Yes, well, I'm talking to _you_, aren't I?"

Potter blinked at him. "I was kidding, Malfoy." He gave something that looked like it was supposed to be a smile. It didn't quite make it. "Look, you don't have to tell me why you're here. Sorry. I was just heading to a pub over there—" he pointed in the direction Draco had already been heading, "—and I thought that it might be you walking into that lamppost." His face changed again, back to the smirk. It was more pronounced this time. "You know, if you don't have to be anywhere, you could always join me—"

"I don't drink."

The smirk left and was replaced by something else that looked like—could it actually be?—disappointment. He must have walked into that post harder than he'd realised and hit his head. He put a hand up to his head and felt along the left side. No, no lump.

"Oh, okay then. See you later, Malfoy. Who knows, maybe we'll bump into each other again."

Draco just shot him a look and turned around, heading back the way he had come. Perhaps he had followed Draco, and perhaps he hadn't. Draco wouldn't put it past him. He sighed. He didn't need to pick up that book he'd ordered after all. It could wait until another day, when there were no wizarding saviours walking the streets.

~*~

The dreams were coming frequently now, but remained vague upon waking. He wanted to chalk it up to stress at work, but that lie was transparent, even to him. This wasn't like back at school though, nor like the period immediately after the war. Then, the dreams had been easy enough to understand, though that hadn't stopped them from coming. Years ago those dreams had been of two kinds—the ones where he was forced to do something for fear of being killed, having his family killed, or the ones where he clung to the hopes of rescue. After the Dark Mark had started to fade, the dreams evolved into something less hopeful, but also less violent. The current dreams were like those—full of floundering, sadness, and aching.

Draco sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The sun was just beginning to rise, tingeing the walls of his bedroom orange and pink. He made his way slowly to the bathroom to shower. No matter how hard he wished it, this day wouldn't go any faster. He still had to face it. No sense in doing it with poor hygiene.

He managed to avoid his task for most of the day anyway, despite telling himself that stalling was useless. Finally, he could find no more excuses to delay and headed out. The cemetery had only a few visitors in the hour before sunset, and he walked through it to the mausoleum without being noticed. This was the first year he'd done this alone. In a way, that made it easier. In other ways, it made this experience so much worse.

He pulled a full flask of Ogden's Old Firewhiskey out of the pocket in his robes, tipped a salute at the plaque bearing his father's name and the dates of his birth and death, four years ago now, and took a draught. Sitting on the marble bench across from the tomb that held his father's body, he let out a shaky breath and rested his head in his hands. Occasionally, he would take another drink. He felt like he should say something, but words never made it to his lips. There was no one here to hear him anyway. Sitting here, putting in the time; that should be enough.

The sound of a heavy metal door swinging forward on its hinges startled him, and he dropped the bottle. He squinted. The light had changed. The sun had set. Had he dozed off in here?

The silhouette of a man appeared in the doorway. "Malfoy?"

Draco grimaced. Not again. "What are you doing here?"

"I was just paying my respects to someone."

"Yes, Potter, that is generally why one visits a cemetery. I meant, why are you here, disturbing the silence of this mausoleum? Were you following me again?" It was almost like their days back in school, really, with Harry Potter trailing him like a clumsy and somewhat conspicuous shadow.

He took a tentative step into the high-ceilinged room, pushing the door open a bit further and kicking at the rock Draco had put in place solely to keep the door from latching. "I told you before, I gave that up years ago. I thought I heard something."

"There was no noise. It's just me in here."

"Are you sure? I thought I heard crying, or whimpering."

The fragment of dream he'd been having came back to him forcefully. The idea that this person, of all the beings on the planet, had heard him crying out in his sleep gave him a nasty jolt, combining with the firewhiskey to make things roll unpleasantly. "Oh. Well, I assure you, everything's fine."

Potter took another step closer to him, as if he was contemplating sitting next to him on the bench. "Really, if you're sure—"

Draco watched the door start to swing shut and tried to flag the other man down. "Potter, no, the door—"

All he got was that dense look. "Huh?" The door slammed shut, the echo reverberating so strongly that Draco could feel it in his chest. "Oh. Sorry."

Gritting his teeth, Draco shook his head in the dark, though Potter couldn't see the gesture. "No, you don't understand. It's after sunset. We're trapped in here now."

"Oh, don't be silly." He heard Potter shuffle back a few steps and tug at the handle, then slap his hand against the door. "_Alohamora_." Across the darkness came muttered cursing between other useless spells.

"Try all you like. I told you, we're trapped. We won't be able to leave until sunrise. There's not a spell you could throw at that door that would let us out. The wards are stronger than you realise."

"Are you sure?"

Draco made a disgusted sound in his throat. "_Lumos_." He raised his wand to some of the plaques on the wall so the idiot could read them. "You see these names? Several generations of my family are entombed here. Yes, I'm sure. No spells to unlock or open, no Apparating. That door will not open; not from the inside, nor from the outside."

"But why? Why would you set such restrictions?"

Draco sighed. "For one thing, it keeps vandals out at night. Cowards." He flicked his wand and lit the lamps nearest his head. Now at least they could see, which meant that Potter wouldn't tread on him. "Well, don't just stand there. We're stuck in here together for the next several hours; might as well get comfortable."

"Malfoy, I'm sorry. I didn't know—"

Sighing, Draco bent over slowly, feeling for the dropped bottle. "Forget it. I know you didn't do it on purpose. Why in Merlin's name would you purposely lock the two of us in a crypt together overnight?"

"I'm still sorry."

"Fine. Just drop it. Apologies don't fix anything."

Potter just stared at him. Draco wished he'd stop scrutinising him. He could feel Potter trying to read him. It wasn't that odd, open violation that he'd experienced when in the presence of a Legilimens, but it was still uncomfortable. He checked his collar to make sure all of the buttons were done up, and pulled his sleeves down as far as they'd go. "Do you really believe that?" Potter finally whispered.

"That's been my experience."

"Oh." Potter moved toward him, debated taking up a place on the bench beside him, and settled on the floor across from him instead. Although his mother was still paying maintenance fees on the place, Draco doubted the floor was spotless. Potter was no doubt getting his robes dirty. Didn't he ever think about these things?

"Sitting on the floor? What, afraid I'll bite? You don't need to worry about that. I'd only do it if you asked. Nicely."

"I'll remember that."

"I'm sure you will. You look the type. And I should know." Merlin's beard, was he flirting? Here, locked in the family mausoleum? And with _Harry Potter_ as the recipient? Maybe the alcohol had been a bad idea, as far as coping strategies went.

"I'm not gay!"

"Calm down, Potter. This isn't about that." He paused, reconsidering. Okay, so maybe it was. Sort of. "This is me we're talking about. And everybody's Malfoy-sexual."

Potter looked at the bottle in Draco's hand and seemed to relax just a bit. "You're drunk." He waved off the bottle that Draco was now offering to him, raising his eyebrows when Draco shrugged and took another drink.

"'Course I am. And you could be, too, if you'd calm down, resign yourself to this fate, and take a bloody drink. Thought you were supposed to be some great saviour. What kind of saviour can't man up enough to share the firewhiskey, leaving me to drink it all and die of alcohol poisoning?"

"You're not going to die of alcohol poisoning." The irritation was there, but hiding just below its surface was something else. Amusement? Could that be it? He tried to see if there was a trace of a smile on Potter's face, but couldn't quite focus enough to tell.

"Well, I don't see you stepping in to help, in any case." He waved the bottle in front of him again. The level was lower than he'd realized. Had he really drunk that much?

Harry hesitated a moment more before leaning forward and snatching the bottle out of his hand. "Didn't you say that you didn't drink?"

"Well, that's what we call a lie, Potter. Surely with all the rule-breaking you've done in your life, you're familiar with the concept."

"Point taken." He took a swig and looked around. The flames flickered subtly, even though Draco couldn't detect a breeze. The light danced off those glasses he still wore and brought out the green in his eyes. It was such a familiar shade. "Not to pry, but were you—" he stopped abruptly when Draco flinched, leg jerking and nearly kicking his own outstretched pair. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing."

"Didn't look like nothing."

"I said it was nothing." There was no way he was admitting to what his brain had just put together. The flashes of green eyes he had been seeing in his dreams were Potter's. Back when they had been in school, yes, Potter had made his way into his nocturnal visions. That had been so easily explained away, once he'd made himself take an honest look at them. Some part of him had hoped, completely in vain, of course, that somehow, Potter would be the one to save him. He was supposed to be saviour to the whole wizarding world. Surely he was capable of saving Draco from his fate. That didn't explain why he was in the dreams this time around. He didn't need saving anymore. "You were in the process of prying?"

Potter blushed, noticeable even in the dim light. "I was wondering if it was your father you were paying your respects to."

Draco was surprised by the tone in that voice. Was it actually concern? Sympathy? "Wow, Potter. Perhaps I had you all wrong. You actually mentioned my father and respect in the same sentence without flinching."

"Don't start, Malfoy." He sounded suddenly tired. "The past is the past. If you'll remember, I testified on behalf of your family during the trials, especially for your mother." He paused. "And for you." The last bit was said so softly that Draco had to strain to hear it. "Besides, he's your _father_."

"Very astute. And yes, that's why I'm here. We do it every year. Well, I do it. Mother couldn't make it this year."

"How is your mother?"

Sitting here, having Harry Potter ask after his family like they were old friends who hadn't seen each other in a while, was more than a little surreal. "She's not well." There was finality in his voice, and dense as he could be, Potter heard it and respected it. He affected as polite of a tone as he could manage, but he was still unable to keep that haughty tone out. Old habits died hard. "As you now know what I'm doing here, I'm sure you won't mind me inquiring as to what brings you here? Or whom?"

"Cedric."

"Diggory?"

"Yes."

"So you still blame yourself for that."

That had been the wrong thing to say, but there was no taking it back. "Of course I do. If it hadn't been for me, he'd still be alive." Potter glared at him and took a large drink out of the almost empty bottle, obviously trying not to cough. He didn't appear to be much of a drinker. At least there wasn't much left.

"The man's own father forgave you for that, didn't he?"

"You just told me that apologies don't actually fix anything, and you're speaking to me of forgiveness? Are you telling me _you_ could accept forgiveness for something so horrible, that easily?"

"Well, when someone legitimately offers me their forgiveness, I'll let you know. But I wouldn't hold your breath waiting for my answer." He reached for the bottle, but Potter pulled it away and finished off the last swallow himself. "I said share, Potter, not finish." He crossed his arms and leaned his head back against the cold stone wall.

They sat in silence for what Draco judged was about an hour. It was long enough that the most pleasant of the firewhiskey's effects had dulled. He no longer felt numbed, or cheered or filled with something like courage. Now he just felt dizzy, and more than a little depressed.

The other man cleared his throat. Without opening his eyes, Draco sighed. "Yes?"

"I was just wondering—"

"You seem to do that a lot."

"Yes, well. I was just wondering why I haven't seen you around in the last few years. Have you been in England all this time? And why is it that of all places to run into you, it was in Muggle London?"

"You really expect answers to all that?"

"No. I suppose not."

Draco heard fidgeting coming from the floor. He opened his eyes and sat up. His head felt a little unsteady, but it wasn't so bad. He'd had worse. "If you actually want to know…" He glanced at Potter's face and saw open curiosity. It made him look quite young, almost as if he were still a child, and not approaching thirty. "Yes, I've been in England. As you _might_ recall, my family wasn't exactly welcomed back into the community with open arms. So my parents kept to themselves at the Manor as much as possible, when they weren't escaping abroad or spending time in Azkaban. I had no interest in returning to that place, not after..." He caught himself. Drunk or not, he couldn't talk to Potter about his childhood home, and all the tarnished memories it held for him. "So I took up residence with the Muggles, where no one knew me. It took some getting used to, I'll admit, but it was much better than sticking around. And as for why you ran into me there… Well, Mother has picked up an affinity for some of the Muggle picture books of gardens. Their photographs don't move, you know. She says they're much more peaceful and tranquil that way, where everything's always perfect and undisturbed. I'd ordered a new book in for her, as a surprise."

"That was very… thoughtful of you." He cleared his throat again. "Do you still live in the Muggle community? And do you work there?"

"I live there, yes. But I work in Diagon Alley."

"Why haven't I seen you there, then? I'm there often, helping out George Weasley."

"My guess would be that it's because I don't exactly go out strolling the streets. I keep to my work. No one knows it's me, and I don't deal directly with customers. Very anonymous on my end. It's the way I like it."

"What do you do?"

"My, it's a wonder our professors put up with you for so many years. Do you never leave anything alone, as it is?"

"I don't suppose it's my style."

Draco tipped his head back and laughed, the sound echoing off the marble and stone. "The thought of you, with _any_ sort of style…" He got hold of himself, remembering where he was and why he was here. "Sorry. I'm a buyer at the apothecary. Only the best quality ingredients on my watch. Not that cheap, low-potency discount rubbish you'll find at some other places. What about you, Potter? Happily married with loads of children, working as an Auror, as everyone expected?"

"Wrong on all counts, Malfoy."

"Didn't stick with the Weasley girl?"

"Ginny? No. That didn't work out. It was never quite right between us."

"Got tired of all the hero-worship, did we?"

He'd expected that to rile Potter, but all he got was a wistful sigh instead. "Something like that. No family for me. I guess the Weasleys will always be like a family, in their way, but I'm not attached."

"Oh. So if you're not an Auror, then what do you do? Big hero like you has to have their pick of occupations."

"Swear you won't laugh?"

"I swear to make no such promise. I'll laugh if I damn well feel like it. Now, out with it. I've already told you much more than I've told anyone else in years."

"I work at Gringotts."

"Curse breaker? Working up new protections and such?"

"No. Er. I'm an accountant."

Draco felt the corner of his mouth twitch. He fought back the laugh. "Well. How utterly… normal. Boring, but normal."

"That was the intent." He smiled. "How's that for funny? You, not only interacting with Muggles, but choosing to live as one of them for the most part, and me, taking a boring job where there's no excitement, and I actually have to use my brain. Who would have guessed, huh?"

"Who would have guessed," Draco echoed, unsmiling. The good humour faded from Potter's face, and he turned away, playing with the laces on his trainers as if they'd suddenly become interesting. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to attempt sleep to pass the time until sunrise. I still have to be at work in the morning."

"Yeah, same here. Er. Goodnight, Malfoy."

Draco didn't respond. He settled himself carefully on the marble bench, wishing for a blanket, or that he was sober enough to conjure one. It wasn't warm in here, and even with his robes over his shirt and trousers the chill still seeped through. Being trapped in this vault wasn't as miserable as it could have been, he admitted to himself. If only Potter hadn't had the curiosity of a small child. If he hadn't been drinking, Draco never would have shared all of those details of his life. It occurred to him as he dozed off that Harry Potter now knew more about him than anyone else, excluding his mother. The thought made him uneasy.

He felt a hand shaking him roughly some time later, and he dragged himself awake, aware that he was warmer than he had been when he'd gone to sleep. "What?"

"Wake _up_, Malfoy!"

"I'm awake. Why on earth were you shaking me?" He sat up and winced. He had a pretty good headache going. He'd definitely be taking a dose of hangover potion as soon as he got back to his flat.

"You were… Um. That is. You were talking in your sleep." Draco could feel the colour drain out of his cheeks. "Not that I understood anything," Potter said quickly. "Besides, sunrise should be any minute. I thought you'd want to know."

"Oh. Right. Thanks."

The other man nodded, hair even messier than it had been before they'd gone to sleep. Draco hadn't been sure that was possible, but the proof was in front of his face. "'Course." Behind them, the sound of moving metal reached their ears, followed by a soft _snick_. "Guess that means it's sunrise."

Draco nodded carefully and stood up, making sure he was steady on his feet. Something slid off of him and onto the floor. Slowly bending down, he picked up the fabric and held it up for inspection. Potter's robes. He put two and two together.

"You looked cold," he said simply.

Draco just gaped at him for a short moment. "Yes, well… thank you, Potter."

"Harry. And you're welcome."

Walking to the door and pushing it open, Draco wondered how much of last night would mean anything once he got back home. He might not run into Potter for another several years. Until the other week, he hadn't seen him since the last of the trials. He'd never thanked him for his testimony, though it had undoubtedly kept both him and his mother out of Azkaban, and had reduced his father's sentence down to three years, instead of the almost-certain life sentence (or worse) he would have received otherwise. It seemed too late for that thank you.

They stepped into the early morning air together, but moved immediately apart. Potter checked for his wand and looked ready to Apparate. He paused and turned back toward Draco, who was trying to smooth his hair. "Malfoy?"

"What is it?"

"I know this was awkward, and I'm sorry I wasted your night, but I was thinking, maybe if we run into each other again, we could grab a pint or two instead of pretending we don't know each other. That is, unless you want to pretend you don't drink again."

Draco opened his mouth to reply, but with a little smile on his lips, Potter Apparated out of sight with a crack. He was surprised to find he'd been ready to accept the offer. What on earth was wrong with him? Potter started appearing in his nightmares again, and suddenly he was ready to spend time with him socially?

He didn't notice that he was smiling to himself that morning as he got ready, even before taking something for the hangover. If there had been anyone around to point it out, he wouldn't have believed them, anyway.

~*~

In hindsight, he shouldn't have been surprised to see Potter standing outside the apothecary two weeks later, though he'd been caught off guard enough to drop his mug of coffee. Potter had flicked a spell at it and stopped it mid-fall. Picking it up and wiping some of the coffee that had slopped over the side with the end of his robes, Potter handed it back with a smile. Draco tried to keep his own smile to himself. "Nice reflexes, Potter. Guess it wasn't a fluke that you made Seeker for Gryffindor."

Potter beamed at him. "Harry. Funny you should bring that up."

"Oh? Why's that?"

"I just happened to have a pair of tickets to the upcoming Quidditch match this Saturday at one. The Holyhead Harpies against the Wimbourne Wasps."

"Well, good for you."

"The point of stopping by was to see if you'd like to come along, Malfoy. What do you say?"

Draco thought it over, which was a surprise to him. He should have immediately declined the invitation. "I don't know."

"Come on. It might actually be fun. When's the last time you were at a match?"

It had been years. Five? Six? "So, what, you think an evening locked inside a crypt makes us friends?"

"No. I'm well aware we're _not_ friends, Malfoy. But I didn't see the harm in thinking that might change. We're not children anymore. What do you have against me, honestly?"

Draco opened his mouth, then closed it. He repeated the process several times, until he was aware he looked rather like a fish. All the old reasons no longer held water. He'd grown out of his inherited biases. Blood purity didn't mean anything. Even his mother had relaxed her views on that. He was no longer competing with Potter for anything. There was no more animosity from him, either. Potter had done more than Draco could reasonably have hoped for in keeping his family from a life in prison, and still, Potter seemed not to hold a grudge. Merlin knew there was plenty he could hold over Draco's head. There were things Draco still hadn't forgiven himself for, things other people pretended to ignore or forget.

"Well? What reasons have you got?"

Sighing, he gave in. "None other than the fact that you're awfully persistent, and that's annoying."

"So you'll come along this weekend?"

"I'm still not sure. I'll tell you what. I'll think it over. If I decide to come, I'll meet you at your place on Saturday. If I don't, then you simply won't see me."

"You know where I live?"

"Of course not. I figured you'd tell me."

"Right. Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place."

"I'd forgotten that house went to you," Draco murmured.

Potter hesitated. "I'd forgotten your relationsh—"

"It doesn't matter. Twelve Grimmauld Place. Saturday. If I'm coming, you'll see me by noon. If I'm not there by then, don't bother waiting up."

"Understood." He flashed a timid smile. "I'll see you Saturday. If you want." He turned and quickly walked away.

Draco couldn't help but notice the light spring in Potter's step, as if he'd actually gotten his way. He watched him go, noticing for the first time that in the years since they'd last seen each other, Potter had acquired quite a nice physique. He no longer looked so stringy. Harry turned around before taking the corner, and grinned as he saw Draco watching him. "Oh, bollocks," he muttered, ducking back inside the shop. That was all he needed. The world was going to hell, and Potter had caught him appraising his body as he walked away. He poured his untouched coffee down the drain and went back to his inventory. Drowning himself in work was the only way he'd get through the day now.

~*~

Draco found himself standing outside Twelve Grimmauld Place on Saturday. He almost hadn't come. He'd told Potter not to wait up if he hadn't arrived by noon, and it was twenty past now. He decided he would at least go up and knock. If no one came to the door, then he could leave.

The door opened not five seconds after Draco had tapped it with his fist. "Running a bit late, I see," Potter said amiably, shrugging on a jumper.

"I told you not to bother waiting for me."

"And yet you're here anyway."

Draco had to give him that. "You noticed, did you? Well then. Is there an Apparition point?"

"Nope, not for us. Not today. Forgot to ask which pitch the match was even at." Potter pointed to a small model of a snitch sitting near a key ring. "Portkey. Ready?"

"As I'll ever be."

Harry held out his arm, and Draco realised that small as the Portkey was, he had no choice but to hold onto Potter somehow, or be left behind. He curled his fingers around the spot just above Potter's elbow and felt that familiar tug behind his navel. He stumbled as they hit solid ground again just outside the pitch, and felt the other man's free hand steady him. "Easy. Come on, let's get to our seats."

As they climbed the stairs, Draco let out a whistle. "Not bad, Potter. How'd you get such good seats?"

"Tickets were from Ginny. She's one of Holyhead's Chasers."

"Well, I suppose that explains it." Draco made a mental note to cheer for Wimbourne.

After the game had started, Draco almost forgot that he had been contemplating not attending. He'd been wary about appearing out in such a public place. Even all these years later, he still preferred to hide away, out of the public eye. So to find himself standing and cheering, even giving Potter a playful shove when the Wasps pulled ahead, was startling, yet invigorating.

"Enjoying the game?" Potter asked, about an hour in.

"Yes," Draco breathed. He could feel his face flush. This was actual, honest-to-Merlin _fun_. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd felt this happy, where everything that had been weighing him down seemed to have disappeared. He'd never imagined he could feel this good in the presence of Harry Potter, The Boy Who'd Lived to Annoy Him.

"Good. Oh, look! Here comes Ginny!"

Even if Potter hadn't pointed her out, Draco could hardly have missed her. Her bright red hair streamed out behind her as she headed their way, eye firmly on the Quaffle that one of the Wasp's Chasers was clutching. His initial reaction was distaste, but he bit back a snide comment. That was a different chapter of his life. He'd likely never make friends with a Weasley the same way he might somehow be making friends with Potter—especially not with the youngest, after his father's actions regarding that old diary. But he could keep a civil tongue. He watched her play, and had to admit that she deserved her spot on the team. He watched Potter follow her with his eyes, intent and focused. He was reminded again of their years back at school.

There was nothing to the rumour that his father had bought him a place on the Slytherin team. The brooms had been a reward of sorts, just as he'd said. Of course, the Gryffindors hadn't believed that. They'd never believed anything that didn't involve a nefarious intention by someone in his house. He'd seen the Gryffindors practice several times, at first certain that it would be good for a laugh, and then later, to study their moves, their strategies, in the hopes that he could beat them that way.

And ugh, it had killed him all those years ago that the Weasley wench was good. Because it meant that Potter actually had reason to look at her, to watch her, to admire her and compliment her. Not that Draco needed a compliment to know he was good. What made it tolerable, other than the fact that he was, in fact, _better_ at Quidditch than she was, was that _Harry_ knew he was better. Hate might have been rolling off him in waves during the minutes they'd been in the pitch together, each desperately trying to find the snitch before the other, but he knew deep down that Harry had recognized his talent, and maybe, just maybe, been impressed. He'd never admit that some of those moves, those dives and flashy turns, had been solely for Potter's benefit. Stampeding centaurs couldn't have dragged it out of him, or even the threat of Hagrid's Blast-Ended Skrewts.

Even the fact that Holyhead Harpies had won the game didn't dampen his spirits much. They didn't have a Portkey straight back to Potter's, and Draco let himself be talked into going out for a bite to eat and a pint. He didn't look like he would take no for an answer, in any case. "But after the meal, I'm gone. I have things to do."

"Of course," Potter said easily. "I wouldn't want to monopolise your time."

They'd worked through a basket of chips and a pint apiece when Potter signalled for a second round and smiled at Draco. He was still getting used to seeing that grin. The only expressions Potter had ever given him back in the day were looks of disgust, hate, irritation, and suspicion. In a lot of ways, Draco thought he was too open. After all he'd been through, how could he be so careless with sharing his emotions? But there was something endearing about that, and some little part of him wondered if there wasn't something to learn there.

"So, what did you think of the afternoon?"

"The match was brilliant. Even if the Harpies did win. I'm telling you, there was some uncalled blatching. Might have cost the Wasps the game, you know."

"Oh, there was not. And that's not exactly what I asked. I'm glad you thought it was a good game, but I was asking more about what you thought of the _entire_ afternoon."

"Hell, Pot—Harry—I'm surprised you have to ask. It was so enjoyable I—" Draco stopped just in time. He'd almost said _It was so enjoyable, I think I could kiss you_.

Potter's eyebrows shot up and his eyes went so wide they were as round as those ridiculous glasses of his. He couldn't have heard that. He'd been absolute _rubbish_ at Occlumency in school, and couldn't have _taught_ himself Legilimency—you had to be born with the ability, didn't you? Draco had never heard of anyone actually learning that skill from nothing, but he supposed it wasn't impossible. But not even The Boy Who Lived was that talented, that lucky. Draco had overheard Snape on about it more than once to Dumbledore. If he'd known Potter had been a Legilimens, even a poor one, he'd have made sure to guard his thoughts better. He was usually so careful about it. Each and every thought along those lines had been under lock and key at Hogwarts and in their few encounters after the end of the war, when he wasn't busy loathing Potter and instead found himself wondering what those eyes looked like up close, or what his breath would feel like in his ear. Occlumency had been a way of life during the trial, and even in the months afterward, when he was trying to keep unnoticed as much as possible. Why, oh why, had he abandoned it _now_, of all moments?

"—I can't believe I almost didn't come along," he finished lamely.

Potter sucked in a breath and looked at him strangely. This was the only expression he'd had trouble reading so far. It wasn't disgust. It wasn't amusement. It wasn't hatred or pleasure or anything else he could immediately classify. "Well," Harry said slowly, "I'm glad you did. Back at Hogwarts, if you'd told me that the two of us could go to a Quidditch match and then out for a couple of pints, and _not_ kill each other or wish for our own deaths, I'd have laughed at you or had you committed to St. Mungo's."

Draco tried to control his blush. He wished Potter would stop looking at him that way, almost as if he were a Flobberworm. Or an interesting Flobberworm, perhaps? Ugh, there was no name for that expression. "I think I'd have to agree with you on that one." He abruptly changed the subject to Potter's job, asking if he actually enjoyed it, and the conversation moved on. Now and then it still seemed stilted, and Draco wondered how he'd managed to foul it up so quickly. Even more than that, he wondered how Potter could possibly have picked up on what he'd almost said.

They bid each other a good night from the pub well after dark. Once again surprising himself, he offered his hand to Potter before their separation. Potter hesitated for the briefest of moments and clasped his hand around Draco's. "Thank you again for the invitation, Harry." Potter's face regained some of that simple look of surprise and pleasure at hearing his first name being used. "It's much appreciated." _More than you know_, he added silently, wondering if that thought would be heard.

If it was, Potter gave no indication. "I really did think you might have stood me up." He let go of Draco's hand and looked at his watch. "It's late. Time to get home." He gave a quick nod and put a hand on his wand. "Good night, Malfoy."

He Apparated away, as the unheard "goodbye" died on Draco's lips. As he Apparated near his own neighbourhood, Draco realised for the first time that Potter had made no mention of a next time. The thought deflated him, rubbing some of the shine off the day. He dragged himself into bed, no longer feeling that the working week would be so easy to get through.

~*~

Two months went by without another glimpse of Harry Potter. Draco slogged through his work weeks, visiting different gardens and greenhouses and bulk suppliers of insects, herbs, and random parts of animals and striking deals for the apothecary. He was tempted once to just show up at Grimmauld place, but felt that would be overstepping some boundary. They'd had one day where they could pass as friends. That hardly gave him the all clear to drop in unannounced. After a while, he just tried to forget the friendship, pretend it was all just some dream.

Except he couldn't. Part of that had to do with the real dreams he was having. They had slowed after the anniversary of his father's death, but they hadn't left. And when his mother had taken a turn for the worse last week, they had intensified again. He didn't wake up in a cold sweat, feeling certain he'd see that awful pale, serpentine face in the dark. It was more that feeling of emptiness in his chest, that lonely, lost ache. He'd lost his father, and that had hurt, strained as their relationship had become. He no longer saw most of his friends from school, the ones who hadn't died in the war or taken their own lives or fled the country rather than face their fate. All he really had left, besides his job and a few Muggle acquaintances that couldn't properly be called friends, was his mother. And soon he wouldn't have her, either. She was the last person he loved who loved him back. It was a fact he carried around with him, always just under the surface. And he had no one to share it with. The dreams always reminded him of that, especially the ones where Harry didn't appear. Those were in the majority, now.

It was a Wednesday when he got the message from St. Mungo's. A head popped into the rarely-used Floo in the back of the apothecary, startling him and nearly causing him to drop a tray of Dittany bottles. He'd listened to the brief message with only a word of acknowledgement, then walked out to the front of the store. "I apologise, but I need to leave."

Terry Jigger, son of the apothecary's current owner, looked down his nose and past his spectacles at him. "Reason?"

"It's my mother. St. Mungo's called."

"Oh." The older man softened a bit. They had been working together seven years, and Draco had a decent enough rapport with him. "I see." The woman Jigger had been helping turned to her companion and whispered something, never taking her eyes from Draco. He couldn't hear the words, but thought he understood the message well enough. "Very well, then. Owl or Floo when you know more, and give my regards to your mother, will you?"

"Yes, sir." He grabbed his wand and donned his robe, reaching for the jar of Floo Powder that would allow him to travel to the lobby of St. Mungo's.

"Draco?"

He turned around, a small handful of powder clutched in his fist. 'Yes?"

"If you need some time off… don't be afraid to ask."

With a grateful nod, Draco turned back around and stated his destination into the green flame. This was the day he'd been dreading for quite a while. He knew he should be strong, for his mother's sake, but he had no idea how to go about it.

~*~

When he arrived at his mother's room, a Mediwitch was hovering outside the door, speaking to another Healer. They stopped, an awkward silence hanging between them as he approached. They let him in without a word.

It took a lot of effort to walk toward the bed where his mother lay. He'd known this was coming, but that didn't make it any easier. She opened her eyes as he settled himself near her.

"Draco, darling." Her voice was quiet and slow.

He bent over and placed a kiss on her cheek. "Hello, Mother." He brushed a lock of blonde hair off her forehead, and she smiled at him. Something tightened in his chest, but he smiled past it. "It's good to see you."

She laughed. If he listened, he could hear a tiny bit of that melodious sound he remembered from childhood. "It's not nice to lie to your mother, Draco. We both know why you're here. Still, I thank you for coming. No one wants to be alone for this." She gripped his hand in her cool one. "You're a sweet boy." He didn't say anything. His voice couldn't be trusted. "Did I thank you for the book you brought me the last time you were here? It was lovely."

He cleared his throat, swallowing past the lump that was lodged there. "I'm glad you enjoyed it."

"Mm." She didn't say anything for a while, and he wondered if she'd fallen asleep. She squeezed his hand after a several minutes. "Was it a problem getting off work early?"

"No, not at all. That reminds me. Terry Jigger sends his regards."

"Tell him thank you for me. He treats you well enough?"

"Yes."

"Good. Did you know we used to be friends, back in our school days?" She didn't wait for an answer. "Things seemed much simpler then, before we all divided ourselves up and against one another on such obviously separate sides. He's a Pureblood, you know. Never did get mixed up with all the trouble of picking sides during either war. Smart man. Oh, Draco," she sighed, looking away. He saw the tears in her eyes and fought to keep his own away. "I wish I had done things differently. I thought my ideals were right. I tried to protect you from those I thought would do you harm. I didn't realise your own parents would be some of the worst offenders."

"Mother, don't. I've heard all this before."

"I know. But I'm still sorry. We forced things on you no boy your age should have had forced on him, even one as bright and accelerated as you were. By the time we realized that, it was too late." She touched the scar on the inside of his left forearm. She had seen it. She knew what it meant. He took her hand and removed it, taking her long fingers between his own narrow ones.

"You know I never blamed you." He couldn't say, not even now, that he had never blamed either parent, but the statement was true enough, and she knew that. She had to.

She smiled at him and closed her eyes. "Be a better person than I was. And if you find happiness, even a little, or in an unexpected place, hold onto it. That's all any mother wants for her child."

He leaned down and placed another kiss on her cheek. Turning her head, she pressed her lips against his own cheek. He stayed with her another hour, until she was gone. Slowly, he placed her hand gently back at her side and walked out the door. He signalled the nearest Mediwitch, who asked no questions, reading his facial expression instead. He was able to make it to the nearest Apparition point and into his own flat before something in his chest tore loose, spilling out his grief in a flood.

~*~

Draco was sitting alone in his mother's garden when a hand came down on his shoulder. He grabbed his wand and whirled around on the wide lip of the fountain.

"Malfoy, it's just me."

He looked up into the earnest face of Harry Potter. A million questions rose in his mind. Where had he been for the last two months? How had he known where he was? He asked the one that formed itself into words the fastest. "How did you get in here?"

"I'm sorry?"

"How did you get past all the wards?" Had he turned them off and forgotten about them? If so, he could hardly be blamed. The funeral, a small, private affair, had been yesterday. Draco scarcely remembered most of it. He also couldn't remember how he'd gotten home, nor if he'd eaten in the last day and a half. He barely remembered walking through the house and into the garden not three hours ago.

"They were there, but they didn't stop me. There was just a pretty chime as I stepped through the front gate, and then a little melody when I tried the front door."

It came back to him then. His mother had changed some of their wards before she'd become ill. For several years, they had been protected by the most stringent of spells and barriers. But as the full-scale animosity had lessened and people had moved on with their lives, his mother had put simpler ones into place, ones that simply prevented those who wished harm to any of the Manor's inhabitants from getting too close. He remembered thinking that they weren't that different from the walls he'd put up around himself, really.

"Oh. Why is it you're here? And how did you know where to find me?"

"I'd heard about your mother." He saw Draco's sharp glance and took a quick step backward. The wand was still in Draco's hand, and the look on his face said he wasn't quite stable. "Luna, from back in school, she's a Healer at St. Mungo's. Something I said in conversation prompted her to mention your mother's passing. So I headed to the Apothecary and asked after you, and Terry Jigger said as far as he knew, you'd be here, taking care of things."

"And why are you here?"

"I wanted to offer my condolences."

"You could have just sent an owl."

Potter sighed and raked a hand through that mop he called hair. "I'll leave if you prefer."

"Please do." He wasn't fit company for anyone. He hated showing weakness, and the thought of letting this man see him at his weakest point in years made him want to crawl into a hole and never come out.

Potter nodded and stepped away and back toward the house. "You know, Malfoy, I understand how you feel. I've lost almost every parental figure I've ever had, and too many friends to count. And really, you may not believe me, but I am sorry for your loss."

With his head once again on his knees, and his arms wrapped around his legs, Draco listened to the footsteps carry the other man away, shoes slapping lightly at the flagstone garden path. "Wait," he said softly, not even sure if he could be heard anymore.

The footsteps stopped, then slowly moved back in his direction. Only two steps. "What is it?"

"Don't go."

There was silence for a moment more, one very long moment in which Draco was sure that Potter would leave anyway, and then the footsteps approached, solid and sure. Potter removed the wand from Draco's hand and placed it on the ledge of the fountain beside him. He could feel Potter sit beside him, very close, but not touching. Neither of them said anything for a while. He was grateful for that, actually.

A breeze blew around them both, and Draco shivered. He was only wearing jeans and a light shirt, though it was September. The sky had been cloudy all day, but as they sat there together without speaking, rain drops started to fall, small at first, but quickly gaining size. Neither of them moved. When the rain had soaked Draco's clothing thoroughly, Potter stood up. "Come on. Let's go inside."

Draco lifted his head off his knees and wanted to insist that he couldn't; he couldn't bear to be inside that house, filled with mixed memories of a mostly happy, privileged childhood and the constant fear and torture and guilt so many years later. Instead, he found a hand outstretched toward him. After a pause, he took hold of that hand and allowed Potter to haul him up into a standing position. Giving him a gentle push forward, Potter followed him up the path and inside the Manor, where he firmly latched the French doors behind them.

While Draco sat limply in a high-backed wooden chair, Potter busied himself making them tea, muttering _Accio_ at intervals. Draco almost managed a smile when one of these spells brought a small porcelain sugar bowl flying behind Potter, nudging him on the back of the head until he turned around and snagged it. A few moments more, and two mugs of tea were placed upon the heavy oak table and Potter sat across from him, sliding one of them toward him. "Drink it."

He had always loathed taking orders, preferring instead to give them, but he put up no argument. It wasn't the best cup of tea he'd ever had, but it was far from the worst. He gripped the mug in both hands, feeling the heat penetrate his icy fingers. He muttered a quiet thank you, staring at the liquid in the delicate mug. There were pale yellow roses around the rim—his mother's favourite flower.

"Now, talk."

He raised his eyes to the pair of green ones across the table. There was sympathy there, plain as anything, but also a firmness that told him Potter wouldn't give up on this easily. Had Harry ever given up on anything? Draco spread his hands on the table, palms up. "What do you want me to say?"

"I don't care. This has nothing to do with me. It's about you." Potter took a long, slow sip of the tea as he seemed to consider it in the silence Draco left hanging over them. "Tell me about your favourite memory of your mother."

He didn't need to think hard at all about it. "Planting the roses. My mother had started the garden just after she married my father. He had it expanded, just for her, as a wedding present. She chose every plant out there. When I was small, around six, she asked me to help her. We spent hours out there, and she didn't once get mad that I was covered in dirt. At the end of the afternoon, she told me that she loved me, and that I was a wonderful help. And then she said that I could spend as much time out there as I wanted, because unlike my father, I was good with her plants, and I could be trusted with important things." He caught Potter smiling behind his hand. "What?"

"Nothing. I was just picturing a very young you, covered in dirt. I didn't think you'd ever been dirty in your entire life."

He allowed himself a small smile. "There's a lot about me you never bothered to find out." He winced, hearing how that sounded only after the words were out of his mouth.

Potter smiled a sad smile. "I won't argue that. Tell me something else."

He considered the request and found himself telling Potter about his visit to his mother a few weeks prior, where he read a letter from an old friend of hers in Paris, and sat up with her until visiting hours were over, going through those Muggle books he had bought her. He didn't realise he was crying until he saw the teardrops hit the table, just behind his mug of tea.

Potter was up and around to his side of the table with surprising speed. "Oh, Malfoy," he sighed. Draco heard the reflected sadness and the worry in that tone and found he couldn't quite stop the tears. This was the last thing he expected to be doing, and the last thing he wanted. He was supposed to be stronger than this. If he was to have a moment of weakness, it should be when he was alone, with no one to bear witness to it.

Standing behind him, Potter put a hand on his forearm, but withdrew his touch when Draco flinched. Had he meant to place his hand there, or had it simply been instinct, a normal-enough place to touch on any other being, wizard or not? He didn't know, and he certainly couldn't ask. He just removed his arm from the table and cradled it in his lap. He felt the hesitation behind him, but Potter simply placed his hand, warm and firm, on Draco's back after another skipped beat. The heat seeped through the wet fabric, comfort coming with it. "It's okay, you know," Potter said softly. "To let other people see you grieve. We're all only human."

He knelt down in front of Draco and looked him square in the eye. Draco made himself hold the gaze. He had wondered more than once what those eyes looked like so close up, years ago that felt like lifetimes. There was a small fleck of golden brown near the pupil of the right eye. He stared at it until he felt light-headed. He could still feel Potter's hand on his back, fingers almost touching his neck.

Draco let out a shaky breath, realising as he did so that they had both paused in their breathing. Rocking back on his heels, Potter removed his hand and broke the gaze. He was flushing deep red, the tips of his ears nearly scarlet, and his neck light pink. For just a moment, Draco had wondered what would happen if he leaned forward, into the other man. Would he be pushed away? Or would something else happen? He blinked hard, trying to clear these ridiculous thoughts from his head. It was the stress of losing his mother, and that rush of loneliness that loss had brought with it. Potter wouldn't have understood, even taking the grief into account. It didn't occur to him to wonder what the blush had been about.

Despite the reassurance Potter had just given him, Draco reined in his emotions as best he could. He could wrap his mind—just barely—around developing a friendship with Harry Potter, but he could not feel comfortable expressing all of his grief in front of him. He had never been good at that. Back in sixth year, he hadn't even confided in his two best friends. Pansy had seen him cry, just once, but after that, he had taken to having any personal breakdowns in private, hiding in the restroom if he couldn't avoid it entirely. Potter seemed to sense this and moved away with a sigh, slowly returning back to his normal colour.

"I should go."

Draco blinked, surprised by the sudden decision. He had no real argument to keep Potter from leaving, other than the fact that though he was now used to solitude, he didn't exactly want to be left alone in this cold, echoing house, where he was constantly tripping over memories that he wished would stay safely packed away. It didn't occur to him that for Potter, that might be reason enough.

Draco walked him to the door so he could reset the wards when he was left alone. If Potter was going to leave, it meant he could use the stronger ones—where no one but those of Malfoy blood or name could enter the property. It hit him that those wards would only allow one person in now. As the other man stepped out onto the front porch, Draco stopped him with a light, hesitant touch on the shoulder.

Potter turned back toward him. His voice was so quiet. "Yes?"

"I... Thank you. For the kind words." He couldn't quite make himself give thanks aloud for the other things: for the prompt to reminisce; for the assurance that what he was feeling was okay; for checking up on him. That is what he had done, after all. Why, Draco still wasn't entirely sure. But at this moment, it didn't seem to matter. The point was, he had done it. It was a tiny thing, but it gave Draco hope that someone did care, and let him see the possibility that he wasn't quite as alone as he'd feared for all this time.

That sad smile flitted over Potter's face again. "Don't mention it." He walked down the steps, but paused at the bottom and turned back. "Malfoy?"

"Yes, Potter?"

"If you ever want to talk... or even just some company..." he didn't finish the thought, and looked frustrated at his own words, as if he regretted saying them. "Well. You know."

Draco nodded curtly. "Thank you." He probably wouldn't take him up on the offer, now that he'd seen that face. Really, he probably wouldn't have taken advantage of it, in any case. It hadn't taken him long to get used to being on his own. Getting _un_used to it would take a while longer, and Draco didn't see the point of trying anymore.

Watching Potter leave the property without another word, Draco sighed and headed back inside. Whether he wanted to face the reality or not, this place belonged to him now, and he had a responsibility toward it. He could always try to sell it. Given its history and that of its residents, that didn't seem likely. His only other real option was to make it into something that felt like a home again. Draco waved his wand around the front door and recited some old incantations. He wasn't sure what he wanted anymore.

~*~

After the number of times that Potter had surprised Draco by showing up somewhere he happened to be, Draco finally found himself in the position of stumbling upon _him_.

"Malfoy?"

Draco was getting used to that greeting, odd as it was. Other than at work, he didn't hear that name much anymore. "Potter."

Harry looked up at him from his place on a park bench, Styrofoam cup of some hot beverage in his hands. "I didn't know you came here."

"I was just thinking that about you." He debated for a moment, then gestured to the spot on the wooden bench where Potter was sitting. "Mind if I join you?"

"Of course not." There was that smile again, wide at first, then quickly brought under control. Draco wondered why exactly he'd bothered to dim it. Harry scooted over and made room. "How have you been?"

Draco wasn't sure what he meant by that question. The last time he had seen Potter had been at the Manor. That had been nearly three weeks ago. "I've been well."

"Really?"

Draco peered into those green eyes, trying to be casual about it. So it had been more than just a standard question, socially expected upon meeting an acquaintance. "All things considered, I suppose so." That wasn't entirely true, but Potter didn't need to know that. The dreams were no longer frightening at all, but the misery he felt upon waking no longer faded as the sun rose. He'd never mentioned the dreams in the first place, preferring to keep that bit private. If he'd been Muggle, he might have considered seeing one of their therapists. That wasn't much of an option, and so he bottled it all up.

"Oh. Well, glad to hear it. I hadn't heard from you, so I figured..."

When Potter didn't go on, Draco prompted him like he would a small child. "Figured...?"

"That either you were doing just fine, or that you were very much the opposite." He looked away, appearing flustered.

"Oh."

They both sat in silence for a while, neither looking at the other. Draco felt a tiny sting that Potter had thought he might be doing poorly, but hadn't checked again. He shook it off. "Looks like snow," Draco said, finally. Could he find nothing else to discuss other than the weather? Why had he even bothered to say hello? He could have simply kept walking when he'd noticed Potter sitting on this bench. He was starting to regret the decision. This was awkward.

"I suppose it does. Or rain, at least." Potter let out his breath, pursing his lips into a circle. Steam came out in a lazy plume. "Or snow," he allowed, a slight flush rising in his already pink cheeks.

Draco couldn't help smiling at him. There was something about spending time quietly with Potter that made him want to open up or relax. He couldn't quite let himself do it, but he felt that tug somewhere within him. "Well, we'll see."

"Right. So, Malfoy, what are your plans for tonight?"

"Why?"

"I was just curious. I thought that if you didn't have anything to do, we could grab another bite to eat, or maybe a couple of pints. Get out of the cold."

He considered this. He was still having trouble admitting that whenever he received the rare owl, or a letter through the Muggle post, or call on his mobile, he had a split second where he wondered—hoped?—it was Potter. He had these thoughts even though Potter didn't know where he lived, nor did he have his number. Was he just setting himself up for more pain, going along with this thing that was starting to resemble friendship?

"Malfoy? Kneazle got your tongue?"

"Hm? No. Alright, I could do with a pint." He said it as if he hadn't been considering crawling into bed and staying there for the entire rest of the weekend, hiding from the rest of the world. He also said it as if he were doing Potter a favour in accepting the offer, instead of the other way around.

"Great. My treat."

"You don't have to-"

"Yes, well, I asked you out. Er. I asked you to join me, that is." Potter's face was now scarlet, and if Draco had thought about it, he would have realized why. He brushed it off as an effect of the cold.

"If you insist."

"I do. You could always get the next one."

This time Draco did smile. _Next one_. It had a nice ring to it. "Sure. Where did you have in mind?"

"Briarwood Pub?"

"The Muggle one?"

"Yeah. Not far from where you walked into that lamppost." There was that smirk, and in spite of the flutter of uneasiness in his stomach, Draco was enamoured. "Why, is that a problem?"

"…No."

"You're sure? We could go somewhere else."

"It's fine. Let's go." It might not be a problem at all, he reassured himself. He was just paranoid. He snorted as the two of them stood. Paranoia had been a way of life for too many years to expect the feeling to go away now.

~*~

Any hope that Draco had about Potter's choice not being a problem evaporated when they entered the pub. For whatever reason, nearly all of the tables were occupied. The ones that weren't had yet to be cleared. "Come on. Let's sit at the bar." Potter led him over without waiting for a response. Draco gritted his teeth. This had the potential to be very unpleasant. He followed along anyway.

The bartender looked up as they sat, twitching his mouth in what passed for his smile. "Evening. Usual, Harry?"

"Always, Nick."

"And you, Greg?" the barkeep asked, gesturing to Draco.

Draco avoided Potter's inquisitive glance, though he was glad they hadn't been eating. He likely would have choked on it. "I'll have whatever you're giving him."

Once Nick's back was turned, Potter elbowed him in the ribcage. "Two questions: one, you come here often enough for the bartender to recognise you? And two, why didn't you correct him about your name?"

The second question was the one Draco had anticipated, but he figured he may as well answer them both. In for a Knut, in for a Galleon. "Why shouldn't I come here? I only live four streets away."

Potter gaped, but something on his face said that facts had clicked home for him, and it should have made more sense why Draco not only knew the bar he had mentioned was a Muggle establishment, but also why he'd first run into him in this neighbourhood. "And the name? Nick may not be an exceptionally pleasant fellow," he said, keeping his voice down, "but he's very quick. I wouldn't have taken him for someone to forget either a face or a name."

Draco sighed as Nick brought them their drinks and moved away, helping a young blond man and a girl with pink hair that reminded him dimly of a cousin he had never really known. He kept his voice low. Every now and then, Draco thought the bartender was just as likely to attack as he was to serve, and he had a comfortable thing going here. Nick didn't look like he suffered liars or deceivers well. "When I said I was living amongst Muggles, I didn't just mean that I live in one of their neighbourhoods. I lived like one. I still do, mostly, outside of work. I took a name to blend in. My given one didn't exactly do that."

Potter snorted a little, like Draco had said something funny. "So, what, you took a new name? Started a new life?"

"Basically. To anyone in here who recognises me tonight, I'm not Draco Malfoy. I'm Greg Crabbe."

Potter spluttered into his beer. "You named yourself after—after _them_? They tried to kill me!"

Draco noticed that he seemed to have forgotten that one of them had died themselves in that attempt. "Look," he said icily. "Are we really going to discuss who's almost killed whom?"

Potter blanched. So, he might have forgotten that one detail (and an insignificant one, to him, more than likely) about the attack on Hogwarts, but he didn't appear to have forgotten that day back in sixth year. _Good_, Draco thought moodily. He slammed back his pint, draining nearly half of it at a go.

Quietly, Potter responded, head hanging low. "No, I suppose we're not."

They didn't speak much, and Draco was beginning to wonder if he should just pay for his drink anyway and leave, when Potter broke the ice. "Why is it we only hang out when we seem to run into each other?"

"That's not exactly true, Potter. You tracked me down at my place of employment to offer that ticket to the Quidditch match. And you stopped by my family's home three weeks ago, uninvited."

"Uninvited, perhaps, but was my visit unwelcome?"

Draco muttered something into the nearly empty glass he was holding. He _had_ been unwelcome. At first. "Were you trying to make a point with your erroneous assumption?"

Potter rolled his eyes, and Draco detected the beginnings of a smile. He smiled a lot. That usually would have annoyed him, but he found himself wondering why Potter was always so damn pleased with everything. Hadn't the world been hard enough on him that he knew better by now? "Point being, why don't we try this new concept, where we prearrange hanging out together? That way, we have something to look forward to. Well, at least, I have something to look forward to."

"Why would you need to look forward to anything? Isn't your life the way you want it?"

Potter looked puzzled. "It's close, most days, I suppose. But who couldn't use something to anticipate now and then? Don't you ever need anything like that?"

That was a tough question to answer. Did he ever feel that it would be nice to have something to look forward to? Absolutely. Did he feel that he deserved that luxury? Not exactly. Did he ever trust those times when his hopes were raised? Almost never. So why bother getting his hopes up if they were just going to be crushed anyway? "I really don't know how to answer that."

"Oh. Well, backing up, would it be so awful to arrange for another time to get together? You and me? Drinks, another match, dinner?"

"No," he said slowly. "I don't suppose it would." This felt like some sort of trick. What was Potter luring him into? He was (Merlin help him) actually enjoying most of the time they spent together. He just couldn't trust that it would stay that way. He would do something wrong, and Potter would disappear. Worse, he would go back to acting the way he had back in school, where he had thought that Draco wasn't worthy of friendship.

"Good. Then before we part ways for the night, let's do that." He held up his hand, little finger extended. "Pinkie swear."

"Potter, I am not, as a grown man, going to pinkie swear with you in a Muggle pub," he hissed. "I may have given up most of my former life, but I still have _standards_." It was not only childish, but _American_.

Harry just grinned at him, that ridiculous wide one that made Draco want to smile right back. "Alright, but I'm still holding you to it. Just try to explain a Howler to your Muggle neighbours. Now. How 'bout another pint? It's much too early to head home."

"See, now there, you have a good idea." He gestured at Nick, who sauntered over and filled their request.

The two of them didn't stumble out of the pub until nearly four hours later. Draco stepped outside, tottering just a little, and felt light rain drops on his face. "Hm. Rain."

"Then I win. Rain, not snow."

Draco laughed, made warm and cheerful by the excessive amount of alcohol he'd taken in and the fun, spirited conversation that had spun between the two of them after the second pint. They'd argued Quidditch, only occasionally forgetting that they were sitting in a Muggle establishment. Nick had shot them a curious, dark look at one point, and Draco had clapped a hand over Potter's mouth to stem the rant he was delivering. Potter had stopped immediately, and once Draco's hand had dropped back to his knee, there was a moment of awkward silence before Potter resumed making his (completely invalid) point. Draco hadn't kept up with the game much in the last several years, and most of what he knew before tonight came from patrons of the apothecary, when they didn't know he was listening.

"So you do. What you win, I have no idea."

"Hm." Potter mulled it over. "Wet clothes, I guess."

Draco laughed again, aware that it wasn't that funny, but enjoying the feeling of happiness too much to care. Oh, he'd probably pay for the indulgence in the morning, but he had something to take for that. Poor Muggles were sadly inefficient at coming up with a decent cure for the common hangover. "Doesn't sound like much of a prize to me."

"Me either." They walked along companionably for a while, not heading in any direction in particular. They were the only people on this stretch of road. For this time of night, that was a little unusual. Draco wondered if it had anything to do with the rain. This was England. If you couldn't stand a little wet weather, then you were in the wrong place.

They paused to figure out where their feet were actually taking them. Draco leaned up against the brick wall in the entrance to an alley. He should have had an anorak, or at least an umbrella. He did have a cloak and a set of robes at home that was charmed to repel water. Either of those would make a nice addition to his ensemble about now. "So, what now?" Draco asked finally, starting to feel a little of the chill.

"Don't know."

"Always helpful, Potter."

"Harry."

"Mm." Draco looked around. "My place isn't too far from here. Should probably crawl into bed soon. I'm likely a danger out and about like this."

"A danger?" Potter gave him a look he couldn't read. "To whom?"

"Myself. Anyone I stumble into. If you're not careful, I'll probably trip and knock into you."

"So, Malfoys can be clumsy? I didn't think that happened."

Draco nodded. "Only when in the presence of someone as horribly uncoordinated as you. It's absorbed, I think."

Harry gave him a little shove that only pressed the two of them against the brick. Draco's smile faded when he realized he had nowhere else to go, and Potter's face was much closer to his than usual. He couldn't really complain, but this was odd. Unexpected. He was about to crack a joke when Potter leaned in and brushed his lips over Draco's.

Draco just stared back at him. "What the bloody hell was _that_?"

Potter looked instantly mortified. "Oh, God, Malfoy, I'm sorry. I don't know what I was—I mean, I thought—I'm so sorry. Forget next time if you'd like. I'll just be going."

He reached out a hand and tried to grab onto Potter's jumper to keep him where he was. "Shut up, you prat. I didn't say sod off. I just asked what the hell that was."

The other man still hadn't stopped looking like he wished a hole would open in the ground and swallow him up. "I think I tried to kiss you."

Draco laughed until his sides hurt while Potter just stared at him, still looking embarrassed. "You _think_? I'm pretty sure that's exactly what just happened. What on earth's come over you?"

"I have no idea."

"Well, have you ever done that before? Not with me, I mean, obviously, but with... another man?"

If it was possible for Potter to turn any redder, he did. If he wasn't careful, he might burst a blood vessel. That would be kind of a shame. Especially as he was just starting to get more interesting. Draco remembered the bit of flirtation he'd tossed around that night they were stuck inside the mausoleum. "Maybe once. Twice."

"I thought you said you weren't gay. Those were your words, were they not?"

Potter finally relaxed enough to smile. "What was it you said that same night? That with all the rule-breaking I've done in my life, surely I ought to be familiar with the concept of lying?"

"Really now?"

"Really. And I wasn't sure about it, so it wasn't exactly a lie."

Draco processed this all through his fuzzy brain. "But you're sure now?"

"Er. I think so, yes, unless it's just you. Didn't you say that everybody's—"

"Malfoy-sexual," Draco finished with him. "Yes. I do seem to recall something like that. It's true, you know. Muggle scientists are hard at work trying to prove it."

Potter gave up the most of the defensiveness and let out a cautious laugh. "Sure they are. Anyway, we should get going back to our places. Thanks for not cursing me into tiny bits for my lack of control."

Draco nodded. "Least I could do, I think. Coast clear for Apparition?"

Harry looked around the empty street and emptier alley. "Looks like."

Draco smiled, still feeling light and tipsy, and now strangely invigorated. "Good." He leaned forward, bit Potter's lower lip lightly, flicking it with the tip of his tongue, and Apparated away, stepping back just in time to see the shocked look on the other's face. That look right there would be worth the hangover he was going to be dealing with when he awoke in the morning, even if he found his potion bottle of remedy unexpectedly empty. Suddenly, the prospect of spending more time within this new friendship looked even more interesting. He hoped to Merlin neither would regret too much of the last two minutes. If it was nothing more than a drunken bit of playfulness, he could live with that, and fairly easily. As long as it didn't ruin anything else.

~*~

Potter was waiting for him outside the Apothecary as Draco left Monday evening. He was surprised, yet pleased, to see him standing there. He looked considerably more casual than he might have expected, given the events of Saturday evening.

"Malfoy."

"Potter." Draco realized with a little thrill that those two words, exchanged in that order, actually uplifted him. Potter didn't say his name with disgust or suspicion like so many others did. It was such a refreshing change. In fact, he rather liked the way he'd said it just now. "Is there something I can help you with?"

"I was just wondering if you wanted to get together once more."

"Didn't you say to forget about next time?"

As Potter's face fell, Draco realized the casual attitude had simply been an act, a carefully constructed façade to hide whatever he was really feeling. "Right. Sorry. I'll just be—"

"I swear to Merlin, Potter, if you're just going to bail because you can't tell when I'm being a prat because I _can_, then how are we ever going to get along and spend more time together?"

The crestfallen look took on a hopeful shade. "So you aren't upset over what I did?"

"If I was, do you think I'd have done that last little thing before I Apparated?"

Potter looked around them, as if checking to make sure they weren't overheard. "No. I guess not. Why _did_ you do that, anyway?"

"Because I can." One side of his mouth twitched upward as he saw the look on the other man's face. "Because it seemed like a good idea at the time, Potter. Made things interesting, didn't it? Or did you just forget it right away?"

"Of course I didn't. And 'interesting' isn't the word I'd use."

Genuinely curious and enjoying the banter, Draco raised his eyebrows at him. "Then which word _would_ you use?"

"I don't know. Confusing. Intriguing. Let's go with intriguing."

"Intriguing it is," Draco said simply. Was Potter going to leave it at this, or actually man up and say whatever else was on his mind? "Any other questions?"

"Er…" Potter flushed. He did that nearly as often as he smiled. "What did it mean?"

"Don't be dense. You made a move on me. It meant I reciprocated the…the interest, let's say. Unless you'd like to take it back?"

"No." Draco was a little ashamed at the relief he felt over Potter's hasty response. "I wouldn't. It's just that I don't exactly know how to go about this all. The next step, that is."

"Easy, Potter. How about we just take it as it comes? No pressure. If something happens, we deal with it then. If it doesn't, then no harm, no foul. We simply go on, enjoying the pleasure of each other's friendship."

"Are we friends, Malfoy?"

This should have been an easy question. Objectively, it was simple. They spent time together socially. Draco enjoyed Potter's company, oddly enough. Potter seemed content with his. When Draco was with him, things seemed easier in a way they hadn't been in years. This was someone who knew his past and didn't shoot him dirty looks when he walked by. He was the least likely friend in the world, but somehow, it was all okay. "Yes, Potter, we are."

"Good." He smirked. "Then call me Harry."

"I _have_ called you that."

"I know. Twice. I just thought I'd mention it. Anyway, you have plans tonight?"

He didn't. He never did. Each night saw him headed home at this time, ready to fix himself a simple dinner or order in and put on the television to something he most likely wouldn't watch, but enjoyed as background noise. It made him feel less alone. He had finally gotten used to watching the television, or taking in a film, but he wondered if he'd ever feel entirely comfortable with them. "What did you have in mind?"

"Dinner."

"Another pub?"

"No. My place."

Draco arched just one eyebrow this time. "You cook? Or do you have a house elf?"

"Neither these days. But there's a fantastic Indian place a few streets over. I was thinking takeaway."

Draco mulled it over. He wasn't big on Indian food, though a neighbour of his had tried to convert him a few years ago. The idea of spending the evening somewhere other than a pub, though, and especially his own flat, seemed…nice. "Alright. I'm in." He took note of the triumphant smile on Harry's face as they Apparated to Grimmauld Place.

Harry had done more redecorating than he had realized since the residence had become his. Draco hadn't exactly spent time in this house before, but his mother had mentioned a few details she remembered from her own childhood visits: screaming portraits, heads of house-elves. None of it had sounded particularly cosy. Draco asked about it and was treated to an embarrassed grin. "Oh. Yes. Some of those things were on there with Permanent Sticking Charms. Turns out that if you remove the wall, the object goes with it." He gestured to the open entrance. "I like it like this, with all the space. Not so confining. What do you think?"

"It's nice." It was, surprisingly. There was a lot of light in this house. It was so different from Draco's flat. There, it was almost never bright enough. Even the sunrise that came through the window of his bedroom was dim, though the colours could be seen. He'd never figured out why that was. "Don't suppose you'd be up for giving me the tour?"

Potter smiled warmly, leading him around. There was an awful lot of room here for one person, and though he wouldn't have been able to tell just a few months ago, there was an awful lot of Harry throughout the house. Pictures of Weasley and Granger, on what appeared to be their wedding day, Potter standing with them dressed in expensive robes. Books on Quidditch and posters of some of the teams, nearly all autographed. Who wouldn't want to give an autograph to Potter? Hell, they probably asked for his in return. Framed photographs were everywhere, most of them moving. Draco looked around with interest, cataloguing the little things that made up Harry's home. A few trinkets from their school days. A new-looking Firebolt leaning against a closet door. A little pewter statue of a doe and buck, that apparently had some important meaning, given the prominent place given it on a shelf. It all contrasted sharply with his own barren flat. Draco had a framed family photo that sat in the drawer of his nightstand, away from all eyes but his. Nothing in the place spoke up and said he belonged there. He didn't feel connected to it at all, but it was still better than the Manor.

They settled in with plates of food, and Potter flipped on his massive television, settling on some Muggle trivia show that Harry had significantly more answers for. "Muggle upbringing," he said with a shrug. "I can't watch this with Hermione and Ron, when they're over. She gets all the answers and he gets bored, muttering something about not sharing his father's curiosity."

Draco nodded as if he was interested. He knew some of his neighbours and acquaintances got together and sat around the television—one had even invited him over for video games, but he couldn't find the fun in it. This sitting around in front of Potter's television and ignoring the feeling of awkwardness and what might have been sexual tension was still better than the video game incident. His neighbour had handed him a funny little lump of plastic with entirely too many buttons and knobs and tried to explain the basics. "You just take this and control the person in the game. Give them a command, and they'll do whatever you want." He had gone on to explain each of the buttons, but all Draco had been able to think was _Imperius Curse_, and he hadn't been able to enjoy it at all.

As they ate and chatted lightly, Draco tried to devise some sort of counting system to track the evening. There was significantly more touching than usual. He supposed he had given Potter permission. Draco was okay with it, even enjoying it, until he ran a finger up the palm of Draco's left hand and up his wrist. He shuddered reflexively.

"What?"

Draco had hoped he hadn't noticed the reaction, but it was just like Harry to be oblivious to most things, yet notice the ones someone else wanted to remain hidden. "Nothing." He tried for a dismissive tone, but came up with defensive instead.

Once again showing that annoyingly-present-at-the-worst-times bit of reason Draco remembered from school, Harry looked from Draco's face to his own fingers, to Draco's inner forearm. "Oh. I know it's there, you know. You don't need to hide it."

"You…know?" Draco's brow furrowed as he tried to piece together how Potter might have heard about it. The only ones who knew were his mother, who certainly wouldn't have told him, if she'd ever even seen him again, his Muggle landlord, and a doctor or two (and assorted personnel) from the Muggle hospital. How on earth did he know about the scar?

"Yeah." His voice was soft. "I know it's there. And I'd guess that by now, it's faded in sort of the same way this has faded." He pushed a bit of his untidy hair away from his forehead to display the almost-invisible trademark scar. Unless you knew it was there, you probably wouldn't even see it.

Draco didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or shout. "You mean the Dark Mark?"

"Yeah, of course." He stared at Draco, brows knitted together just a little. "I know it wasn't your choice. I don't hold it against you or anything. And besides, you're not the same person you were back then, anyway."

About that last, at least, he was correct. "It's not what you think it is."

Potter frowned. "What do you mean? Did it not fade? It can't still be active…"

"Of course it's not. It's just that…" There was no easy way to explain this. He didn't _want_ to explain this.

Potter took his hand, very gently, and began to undo the buttons at his wrist. Draco wanted to protest, to pull away, but he was mute and as paralysed as he might have been under a number of spells. He just watched as the buttons were undone and the sleeve was pushed up to nearly his elbow. "Oh, Draco," he sighed. "What happened?"

Draco's mouth worked, but no sound came out. Finally letting out a shuddering breath, he managed something. "I couldn't stand it on me. So I tried to get rid of it."

"You…You did this to yourself?" Potter hadn't taken his eyes off the mass of scar tissue that covered most of Draco's inner forearm, nearly the length and width of his hand. "When? Why?"

He closed his eyes. He could still feel Harry's touch, one hand cradling Draco's arm, the other holding his hand to better see the scarring, thumb in Draco's palm. He hadn't jerked away upon seeing it, and that was likely the only reason Draco could get an answer out. And had Potter finally called him by his first name? "Once, just after sixth year. Once, before the final battle. And then again, the last time, when I was twenty-one. That one stuck. The other two times, it came back."

"Does it hurt?"

Eyes still closed, Draco shook his head. "No. Not anymore. There are a few places that are numb, and a few more that are hypersensitive. But there's no physical pain."

"You hated the Mark so much you cut it off," Harry said to himself, voice an unpleasant mixture of sadness, anger, and amazement. He ran a single finger down the length of the ugly marking.

He just nodded. He couldn't make himself talk about the rest of the details. What it had felt like to finally be set on doing something about it. The pain involved; the horrific mess; nicking a vein; feeling so woozy from the blood loss and pain that he'd stumbled, breaking dishes on the table as he fell to the floor, concerning his landlord, who lived in the flat below and knew him to always be silent; lying there, waiting for the ambulance as the Muggle had tied a tea towel above his elbow, and thinking that losing consciousness, and maybe even his life, might be a better alternative than living with the feelings he had every day. Shame. Regret. Misery.

Of course, no one believed that he hadn't intended to kill himself. And he couldn't well explain the Dark Mark to any of the Muggles who said that they were concerned, nor why he'd want to get rid of it so badly. So he had listened to their pointless pep talks and hoped with everything that was still left in him that all these years later, the Mark wouldn't come back. He'd refused to use Dittany to speed the healing or minimize the scarring. When the skin had finally healed and he detected no trace of that skull and snake, he'd literally wept with relief, feeling delirious and wholly unstable. Shortly after that, he'd tentatively stepped back into the wizarding world, looking for a job. He'd never be able to describe the anxiety of that first day back in Diagon Alley, sure all eyes were on him. Finding someone who would give him a job—any job—had been surprising. Finding a job he enjoyed that kept him out of the public eye had been nearly miraculous. It had made him almost happy.

Lifting Draco's arm, Potter pressed his lips gently into that scar. Draco opened his eyes, both surprised and moved at the gesture. He caught Draco looking and looked back at him seriously. "I understand."

The weird thing was, Draco thought Harry actually might. He pulled his arm back easily, staring, wondering what came next. It might only be one simple fact to anyone else, but having Harry know that the scars existed as well as what they meant changed a lot for Draco. "Do you?"

"Yes. I do. And thank you, by the way."

Confused, Draco did the two little buttons back up. "For what, exactly?" It was still hard to speak. He couldn't mean for the mutilation. That would be sick.

"For letting me see. Telling me what, and why. For trusting me," he said, looking embarrassed, yet fond. "That means a lot to me, especially after our past."

Draco nodded and tried very specifically _not_ to think of the other thing. The sexual tension that had been slowly building, fuelled by those increasingly frequent touches, had faded. Something that was awkward and pleasant in a different way had replaced it. When he got up to leave for the evening, there was no kiss, no embrace. There was simply Harry's hand on his shoulder blade as Draco walked to the door, comfortable and warm, almost as if it belonged there. He walked to the end of the street trying to puzzle out what it all meant. Should he feel ashamed? He'd kept the entire incident a secret for so long, he wasn't sure what to feel now that someone else shared it. Was he supposed to pretend it didn't bother him anymore? Would Potter be as understanding if he continued to keep it hidden? He had no answers and went straight to bed, questions such as these still swirling around in his head. The dreams that had been fading returned that night, and when he woke the next morning, Draco was surprised to realise that he had been left with a feeling not unlike hope.

~*~

Their relationship progressed slowly, and each time they spent a few hours together, Draco felt a little more of his defences chip away. They had been seeing each other as friends for a month after the night Harry had seen the scar on his forearm, when things heated up. Harry had shown up at his flat, dressed in jeans and a navy blue shirt that had the topmost button undone. The blue made the green of his eyes even brighter than usual, and Draco was about to say so, when he saw the look on Potter's face as he opened the door.

"Malfoy." There was heat in that tone, no mistaking it.

"Potter? What are you doing here? Did we have plans tonight?" Harry shook his head, a light in his eyes dancing. He appeared to be making an effort to keep his eyes on Draco's face. Draco looked down and realized he'd come to the door without anything on below the waist besides an old pair of boxers. "Damn. Hold on." He grabbed the jeans he'd just finished washing from the back of a chair and put them on, trying not to fall over as he did so. Of _course_ Potter would catch him in an embarrassing state. He just wasn't used to receiving visitors.

"Oh, don't do that on my account. I was quite enjoying the view."

Draco pursed his lips in an attempt to keep a smile at bay. "I'd gathered. You're not very subtle, you know. I ask again, though: did we have plans tonight?"

"No. We didn't."

"Then why, pray tell, are you here? Not that I'm complaining," he said hastily. One of the more ridiculous things he'd discovered as their relationship or friendship or whatever it was had progressed was that he didn't like being the stimulus that caused Potter's disappointment or unhappiness. His younger self would have killed him for the realisation, putting him out of his misery in quick fashion. He'd thrived on that back at school. All those nights sneaking out, waiting to see what Harry would do that Draco could make sure he was punished for. They'd spent an awful lot of time out of bed in the late hours, sneaking around and spying on the other. Maybe he should have seen this coming after all, he thought with a smirk that escaped his control. Or maybe he'd been a stupid child and wouldn't have believed the insanity if someone had tried to enlighten him. That seemed likely.

"I just wanted to see you," Potter said with an embarrassed grin, rubbing the back of his neck. "Do you mind?"

Draco shook his head and opened the door wide, allowing Potter to pass. He was wearing aftershave, something he never did (as far as Draco knew, that was), and it smelled good. It reminded him of a cool autumn's day, after rain had washed things clean. "No, not at all."

Potter moved inside and stood around awkwardly. He'd never been past the front door before. Draco had a sudden urge to grab him by his belt, pull him close, and snog the life out of him. What on earth was in that aftershave he was wearing? Breathing deeply, he smiled at Potter's uneasiness. It wasn't the aftershave. It was that look Potter had given him when he'd opened the door. That, and knowing that Harry had been thinking about him enough to drop by uninvited. They'd been pretending at this 'nothing more than friends' thing for long enough. Three times now, Draco had thought Potter was going to make another move on him. It had never happened. Tonight, he might wait and see if the hero to the wizarding world could muster up the courage to finally do something about it.

"Did I interrupt anything?"

"No. I was just about to order in a pizza. Would you care to share?"

"Sure." Potter surveyed the bland flat as Draco called and placed the order. "I've been meaning to ask you, Malfoy. What is it that you do for fun?"

"Other than spend time with you?" he said cheerfully, putting down the telephone. He'd said it partially because it was true, but mostly because he knew it would make Potter blush and stammer.

True to expectation, Potter did indeed blush and stammer. "Er, well. Um. Yes, I suppose."

"Well, other than that, fun's been in short supply lately. Would you like to suggest something?"

Potter's face, neck, and tips of his ears turned furiously red. Draco snickered. Something had gotten into him when he'd seen the look on the other man's face as he stood on his doorstep, and he was having a hell of a time getting rid of it. He wasn't sure he wanted to. This thing with Potter was oddly exciting. He'd had little in the way of relationships since the war. There had been plenty of short flings, nothing lasting more than a week. None of them, not one, had been anything more than a physical release, the closest thing to comfort that Draco could find. This was entirely new territory. "Er," Harry said by way of response.

"Well-said, Potter." He moved over to him, feeling nimble and very aware of the quick pulse in Potter's neck, visible as he approached. "You do know there are things we could do that wouldn't require a stunning, witty rejoinder." He stood directly in front of Harry, running a finger along his exposed collarbone.

Potter leaned in with surprising speed, and Draco once again felt Harry's mouth on his. He had expected more teasing, more bantering, more _self-control_. As he gave in and returned the kiss, feeling Harry's surprisingly sure mouth open, he realised how stupid the thought had been. Potter had never had much in the way of self-control. He seemed to have been bred without it, fundamentally incapable of possessing such a thing.

After a moment, the urgency lessened and Potter moved Draco back onto his own sofa, moving with a surprisingly gentle grace. His body was more toned than it looked in those clothes he wore, and Draco loved the feeling beneath his hands of those muscled arms, especially as one of them wrapped around his waist, resting on the small of his back. He broke it off after a few minutes. "That's enough."

Potter looked flustered, but not ashamed. "Alright." The husky tone, full of desire, made Draco want to rescind the comment and pull Harry back on top of him.

"So, Draco said, trying to get his racing heart back under control and find out where they stood. "More than friends?"

"Merlin willing," he replied softly, trying to get that hair of his under control. Draco could have told him it was a lost cause. He straightened the glasses on Harry's face. Harry intercepted his hand and placed a small kiss on his palm. "And you too, of course."

"Of course." The doorbell rang, and Draco remembered the pizza. He got up, having more luck straightening himself than Potter had, paid for the pizza, and set it on the table. The food could wait. Harry looked like he could not. Draco found he didn't want to make him. Could he actually have found someone with whom he not only had chemistry, but had a real relationship as well? All this, because he had walked into a lamppost? "Now, where were we?" Draco had seen the look on Potter's face when he'd asked if they were more than friends. It had been hopeful, relieved, and blissful. As worried as Draco might be that this might blow up in his face, it seemed Potter wasn't entirely sure about it, either. The thought put him at ease. A lingering shred of nagging doubt had dissolved when he saw that Potter had something invested in this thing as well.

"Right about here, I think," Harry said, removing his glasses and placing them on the end table. This time he pulled Draco on top of him, smiling and looking shy. Draco smiled back down at him. Harry's hands moved underneath the bottom hem of Draco's worn sweater, shifting the material up just slightly. "Off with this would be nice, though."

Draco froze. "No." His answer was short, more clipped than he'd intended it to be. "I'd prefer not to." All the heat, the excitement, seemed to leave the room in an instant and Draco sat back up on the sofa, scrambling off of Harry.

Potter looked at him for a moment, green eyes clouded by confusion in a way that was much different than his lost, confused looks back in Potions class. There was no glimmer of recognition or realization on his face, and Draco was grateful enough that his shoulders dipped just enough that the other man might have noticed. He wouldn't have to acknowledge it now. If he never had to, so much the better.

_That's not true_, some silky voice purred at the back of his mind._ You _want_ him to see. To remember. To realize what he did_. Those thoughts surprised him. He'd thought that with everything else that had happened between them in recent months, he had buried that voice for good. Perhaps there were still things deep within him that wouldn't be resolved so easily. Besides, Harry feeling guilt was one thing. The other side of that scenario was what Draco wanted to stay gone forever.

Draco shook his head to silence the voice. Harry saw it, of course. "You okay?"

Taking a slow breath, Draco nodded until he felt confident his voice could remain normal. "I'm fine, Potter. Enough questions. Can't we just enjoy ourselves with our shirts on?"

"I guess. I just don't underst—" His eyes widened, no longer hiding behind those frames, and the fiery colour drained from his face in an instant. He grabbed his glasses and shoved them onto his face. There was no doubting he'd figured out what had changed things.

Draco had gone from happy and excited to miserable in record time. Now was when things would change, then. Potter remembered. He'd dealt just fine with the other hang-up Draco had, because he hadn't been directly involved in that one. Now that he had to confront the other ever-present reminder of what Draco had been, things were no longer so easy.

Instead of running out the door like Draco expected, Potter leaned over and pulled down the collar of the stretched-out shirt. Harry made a strangled noise in his throat and abruptly let go of the grey material.

"Yes," Draco confirmed, throat constricting. "Still there, after all these years."

"Oh, Malfoy. I'd forgot—I mean no, I hadn't forgotten, but I'd thought that they'd been healed by Snape, and I'd hoped…"

He didn't finish the thought. "Well, they haven't," Draco said, hearing the irritation in his own voice. "The wounds healed, but the scars remained. As a reminder forever."

Harry hung his head. His throat worked. Any moment now, and he'd be gone.

"So now you remember. It's been fun, Potter, this thing between us. You should be on your way."

"Wait—"

"No. It's for the best," Draco told him firmly, trying to make himself believe the words issuing from his mouth. "We had a good time, but there's no way we can keep this up for much longer without this coming up. You remember as well as I do."

"I didn't mean it."

"Of course you—wait, what?" That wasn't part of the scenario Draco had been dreading, trying to fool himself into believing would never happen, telling himself that they'd gloss over it.

"I didn't know what that curse would do when I threw it at you. The book said 'for enemies', and I thought that's what we were at the time, before I was totally aware of the whole situation, and I just thought that with what happened with Katie, and the way you were always—I mean, that doesn't excuse it, but really, Draco, I can never apologise enough for what I did."

"You're… upset… because you feel guilty over what happened to me in that bathroom?"

"Of course. If I could take it all back, I would. I was startled, and it was the first thing to come to mind, and I never should have used it in any case."

Draco's head spun. "You do remember what caused you to throw that spell my way, don't you?"

Harry raised his head, green eyes bright and—could it be?—damp. "I told you, I was startled, and it was something of a reflex—"

"I tried to use a Cruciatus on you, Potter."

Remarkably, Potter looked relieved. "Oh. Is that what this is—I mean, wait, what do these scars make you remember?"

He didn't want to answer this. He actually had tried to use Dittany on these, and Madame Pomfrey and Snape had tried their own methods to remove the shiny, nearly silver markings from his pale skin. Nothing had worked. The Dark Mark, when it came down to it, had been forced on him. The _Crucio_ that he had thrown out had not been. "The day I used an Unforgiveable on you."

"You think you—No, Draco—"

"Don't be so dense, Potter. I remember it, clear as day." He frowned. Surely he'd imagined Harry using his first name this time. Why was it that he refrained from using it? Perhaps it was a way to distance himself. It wouldn't matter much anymore, anyway.

"No, Malfoy, you don't understand." Harry reached out and placed a hand on Draco's knee. "Did you know I've uttered the same curse? Twice?" Draco shook his head, unable to believe him. Not someone as undoubtedly good as Harry Potter, even if he was lacking in judgment now and then. That would go against everything Harry stood for, wouldn't it? "It's true. End of fifth year, in the battle in the Department of Mysteries was the first time. Your—your aunt, she'd killed Sirius, and I was so hurt that I could barely breathe, and I threw one at her. And you know what I learned about the Unforgiveables?"

"No."

"You have to _really_ mean them for them to work. I hit Bellatrix, but it had almost no effect. Deep down, I didn't mean it enough."

"Why are you telling me this?" Draco asked quietly. Potter's hand was still on his knee. It was a gesture of comfort, but he didn't deserve it. It was finally going to go up in smoke. He never should have gotten his hopes up. This would be his final lesson in the matter.

"I know that you didn't mean it, either. Even if you'd hit me first, you wouldn't have inflicted as much damage as you think. But what I did almost killed you. For years, even after the war, I'd go to sleep at night and wake up with a start, seeing you lying in that puddle of water as those wounds opened up on your chest. There was so much blood. In every one of those dreams, Snape got there too late, and I watched you die. All because of me, because I'd lacked judgment, or compassion. What kind of hero lacks those things?"

Draco didn't have an answer for that. "But who says I deserved them?"

"I do," Harry whispered simply. "Can you forgive me for what I did?"

Draco wanted to yell at him, to call him a bloody moron for insisting that other people had more good in them than they probably ever did, but found the lump in his throat prevented that. He swallowed past it. "Only if you forgive me for my part."

"Malfoy. I did that a long time ago. You know," he said with a shaky sigh, "it might be time we forgave ourselves as well. Start anew. What do you think?"

Everything in his chest constricted in a way that made it hard to speak. "I have a question, actually."

Harry let out a little laugh, seemingly unsure if it was an appropriate time to do so. "With all the times I pester you with questions, I suppose it's only fair to answer one of yours. What is it?"

"Why don't you call me Draco?"

Potter's mouth quirked up at one end. "Because you never told me I could. I thought you didn't want me that close. Is that not it?"

Unable to trust his voice again, Draco slowly leaned forward and kissed Harry. The kiss was tender on both their parts, full of emotions Draco had been holding onto so tightly, unable to put them into words, or share in any other way. As they sank into each other, he allowed himself to let go of some of the pain and guilt he had been storing for so long, letting it eat at him. It wasn't going to be easy to let go of everything, but he was willing to make an attempt at learning to be happy once again. He looked into those eyes, that piercing green that had been in so many of his dreams, offering hope and redemption, and promised himself that he would try with everything he had left in him.


End file.
